How To Save Humanity's Sorry Butt in Ten Simple Steps
by parityparable
Summary: "Think they're alive?" "I don't think they wanted to be," Earth lies in ruins; the corrupt and contemptible emerging from shadows where they once lurked, fearful of judicial conviction and social abhorrence. Now, the fear's gone – for them at least. It's time to put humanity to the test, and as it turns out, apocalypses can bring out not only the best in people, but also the worst.


Full Summary: "D'you think they're alive?" "I have a feeling they didn't want to be," The world as we know it lies in ruins, the corrupt and the contemptible emerging from the shadows where they once lurked, fearful of judicial conviction and social abhorrence. Now, the fear is gone – for them, at least. It's time to put humanity to the test, and as it turns out, an apocalypse can bring out not only the best in people, but also the worst.

AN: Hey there, call me P. This isn't the first story I've ever written, nor is it the first I've posted on . Nonetheless, I'm really nervous to see what people think about it. Should I continue with it? What could I do to make it better? Thanks. :)

I've been debating whether or not to turn this into an SYOC (submit your own character). That's another thing I'd like some feedback on – after reading this prologue, would you want one of your characters in the story? If I get enough pro-SYOC response, I'll get on that as soon as I can. Thanks again.

This is an OC-based story, but the original JP Flock will have roles in it.

The narrative is in unformatted text. _Emphasis and the character's thoughts are in italics._

Disclaimer: I do not own rights to the Maximum Ride series or any related content. Its use in this document is purely for non-profit entertainment purposes, as is mention of anything else not currently under my intellectual ownership.  
Claimer: I do, of course, own all of my own intellectual property described in this story. Plagiarism is an ethical offence – no takey my stuff.

How to Save Humanity's Sorry Butt in Ten Simple Steps

Prologue – Numbers

Third Person POV 

As he took an impromptu skid round the sharp corner into the pitifully lit and abnormally narrow street, the inhumanely worn soles of his excessively heavy combat boots screamed against the darkening asphalt in protest. He had no clue how long he had been (painfully) sprinting for freedom, yet something told him that his beloved footwear was going to be taking one – or two, in the shoes' case – for the team. The exhausted young man wasn't even sure if he was still being tailed – hadn't been for about 40 miles – but he was as sure as his will to live that he was not taking chances.

The scant thickness of the alley forced him to shuffle sideways, sucking in his stomach and pressing his back against the wall, which was quite an impressive feat, considering the boy's near non-existent weight. He felt something wet and heavy dribble through his hair and under the back of his soft leather jacket, and looked up to see that the dank alley was canopied by a long, smooth brick archway. It was dripping pellets of rain at an agonisingly slow pace, thus splattering his face as he went along. A droplet shattered against his forehead; the remains of the wetness crawled down the crease where the nose meets the cheek, caught on his subtle Cupid's bow and sank hastily into his fitting white T-shirt, determined not to fall again.

He returned his head to its original position, facing where he was going, and realised that a while ago, it was too dark and shadowy to discern the end of the tunnel; now he could see dazzling lights of all colours bleeding in through a gap even tighter than the constricting passage itself.

The rugged adolescent was at a mental crossroads: _should I push forward? Should I turn back? Should I stay here and wait for something to decide for me? _Each option was none too appealing. They all definitely had the potential to land him in equal amounts of trouble. Turning back could mean jeopardizing everything. Waiting would require something to give him a forceful nudge in the right direction i.e. a horrific wolf-man half-breed or two making an unexpected and unwelcome appearance at one end of the tunnel, which would very effectively coerce him to move in the opposite direction.

Curiosity was something this man had unswervingly pinned himself against for many meticulous and painstaking years, yet somehow he still found it boiling in the stubborn pit of his stomach at that moment, vigorously egging him to find out what was beyond this claustrophobia-inducing couloir.

As he edged cautiously further down the passageway, slowly digging himself a deeper grave in his opinion, the humid silence and sluggish drip of water were pushed aside by a much more dominant sound: a muffled thrumming of music, multiple genres intermingling together, creating something odd, messy, rather indescribable really – yet altogether euphonic. It could only be identified as the sound one hears when standing between a group of individual stereos, all playing different music.

The light at the end of the tunnel was so bright and blindingly white that he felt as if he was stepping into Heaven. "'Sup, Jesus? How's life?" he muttered in a casually sarcastic tone, the attempt to quell his raging nerves falling from his lips in vain. Warning sirens were blaring in his skull, but for once in his life, spontaneity sounded like a decent idea, and he'd long since decided that he was going to investigate. Turning back was out of the question now.

Suddenly, the unearthly white became floral pink, then bloody red, sour yellow, rusted gold, blue like a clear Summer sky. He couldn't, for his own life, figure out how or why the colour was changing. Where was the light coming from?

The answer was revealed to him as he finally slipped through the end of the passage, one last drop of slimy dampness sinking into the hem of his shirt.

Nightclubs.

There was nothing but nightclubs, lined up in rows, facing each other. Each was producing its own light, colours, sounds – occasionally litter when some tipsy club-goer mistook the window for a bin. The shell-shocked boy had never seen so much space, money or effort simply dedicated to entertainment in the same place. He stood with his shoulders pressed against the bricks on either side of the tunnel exit – or entrance, as it had now become – his head tilted back a fraction, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. Anyone watching would probably have looked frantically around to see if they could catch the murderer, fleeing from the victim whose untimely stabbing this young man had undoubtedly just witnessed.

A flying slice of pizza snapped him out of his stupor. He watched long enough to see it smack into an opposite window and slide slowly down, tracking grease down the plastic pane. The use of plastic caught him off guard at first, but as he thought about it, it made sense. Glass wouldn't exactly be an award-winning idea around a club full of senseless and potentially violent drunks.

The young male began to walk forward purposefully, forcefully, to reduce the chance of someone deciding he looked an easy target._ Maybe there's a dark nook at the end of the street, where a kind hobo is waiting to offer me a cosy spot in his cardboard box._ His steps almost faltered for a moment as he thought about how ridiculous that had sounded. His life was like Hell in a Pepsi can; why should things start going in the right direction now?_ It'd be easier for me to find a winning Lottery ticket… valid in Micronesia._

If he'd got too tangled in the web of his own musings, he probably would've stacked it straight over the drunken, rough-looking, trench-coat-clad male (whom the younger man couldn't help but suspect was some kind of drug dealer) who'd just staggered backwards out of the nearest club's sliding doors and was slumped over on the ground. Auspiciously for him, he managed to unravel himself from his figurative net of thoughts just in time to hop over the suspect's unshaven noggin. Clearly, this was not a suitable place for children.

Apparently, he'd been squinting back at the passed-out drunkard as he walked, because he suddenly found that the body had grown to the size of a child, the road behind him had stretched considerably and he was now in front of the last club in the street. As he turned, he observed that it looked a lot cleaner than any of the others. Freshly painted a navy blue colour and three stories high, the building was graced with large, minimally-streaked windows and yet-to-be-graffiti-covered posters pinned adjacent to the clear doors. He stood and pondered for a moment.

He didn't have a better place to start, but a club would be an easy place for someone to get themselves kidnapped.

He couldn't turn back now, but if he settled down, they'd find him quicker.

Maybe he could make some local allies, but allies could easily turn him in at the promise of cash (or, more likely, the threat of death).

He needed a place to stay, but there was hardly a chance that someone was going to let him sleep in their_ nightclub._

His first point eventually overrode all of his others: he simply didn't have a better place to start.

So in he went.

Instantly, he was bombarded by sweaty, insufficiently-clothed bodies – girls trying to pull him in, boys pushing past to steal his place; couples doing things that could possibly be called dancing in some alternate universe somewhere. The smell was unbearable; heavy perfumes and unpleasant body odours waltzing together through the air, and the air itself just the same, heavy and humid with the mass of body heat radiating from the dancers. Strobe lights of all colours penetrated every dark, dusty corner and made it hard for him to focus on anything. Shoulders bumped into him nonstop, hands scrabbled at his biceps. He could practically taste their excitement at the arrival of fresh meat.

Carefully – or as carefully as possible when you're hurriedly trying to avoid a mosh pit – he calculated a path ahead of him, towards the doors at the end of the room. Weaving his way ungracefully along said metaphorical path, he stepped on several feet, polystyrene cups and, to his horror, pairs of underwear. Trying to keep himself aware of his predicament, he glanced over his shoulder a couple times to rekindle his natural paranoia. As he was about to turn his head to look ahead of himself, he felt it.

His midnight blue eyes met with dark ochre ones and locked there for ten tantalising seconds. It was just how they always said it was in the movies: everything around him faded to a blur, the sounds were numbed, the heat rushed away, and all he could see were those two gorgeous eyes. Then she turned away, and so did he.

By some miracle, he managed to wrestle his way through the moving death trap of humans and break free from the throng. The door he was aiming for blended perfectly into the dusty black wall, save for the grey outline, which was so thin it was possibly suffering from a severe case of some kind of anorexia nervosa specific to objects. There were no signs on it to indicate that there was restricted access into the room beyond, so he pressed his forearm and balled fist to the door and heaved with his shoulder.

It was about as heavy as he had expected, but luckily, he was not lacking in the muscle department, so it wasn't a challenge to push open enough to slip through. He neatly replaced the door and then turned to look at the room. There were about ten people, all sitting round circular tables, and twenty eyes looking disapprovingly in his direction. A few moments later, as if some telepathic source had whispered inside their heads to all turn away at the same time, their gazes left him and everyone returned to their quiet conversations.

He was standing in a coffee house. The room, with a winding metal staircase in the corner, looked like any old regular Costa. To his left was a wooden counter with racks of breakfast biscuits and granola bars and a late 1980s TV pressed up against the far wall. A bored-looking black girl was behind it. She was leaning on her elbow against the countertop and appeared to be intently inspecting her fingernails. Her navy blue apron caught his attention: it was the exact same colour as the entrance to the club, and had a white logo embroidered to the pouch: a steaming teacup with the phrase 'Conrad's Coffee' underneath.

The floor was made of varnished, light-brown wooden planks and the walls had been painted a smooth cream. The door behind him camouflaged itself into the wall just like the door in the club; however this one was an off-white colour instead of charcoal black. White tables and patterned metal chairs were strewn around the room, along with various exotic-looking plants and tall, warm-coloured candles in bronze dishes. Bulky rectangular lights hung precariously from wires under the ceiling, looking as though they were fit to snap off at any second. The wall opposite was made mostly of clean glass, with double glass doors to match, right in the centre.

It appeared that the road beyond was a shopping street. As it was quite late, the hustle and bustle had already ceased, but there were still a few late-night shoppers milling around. The asphalt, polka-dotted with gum, was illuminated by gloomy, towering lampposts.

He turned his attention to the two framed menus hanging behind the counter, guarded azure eyes scanning downwards for signs of anything worth splashing on. Slowly making his way to the counter, he opened up the flap of his shoulder bag and dug around for scattered cash. Finally, he managed to scavenge two one-dollar bills and slid them onto the countertop. "One small hot chocolate, please," His own voice surprised him. He'd expected, after running for such an abnormal distance without rest, that it would come out strained and hoarse, but in fact it just sounded deeper and smoother than before. Maybe his little escapade had been the price for becoming a man.

The girl's dark eyes flicked up. Her gaze swept him up and down like an hyper-speed elevator, and she seemed to either be judging whether he was worthy of the effort to prepare a drink, or whether he was attractive enough to earn a 'thank you for shopping with us' smile. Apparently, she'd given both options a green light because she sent a small smirk in his direction as she poured chocolate powder into the machine behind her.

He feigned curiosity until she turned away, and then let the disinterest show plainly on his face like an open book. His stare brushed over the characters at the tables- they all looked so innocent; he'd hate to see them dragged into his screwed up problems. Though, despite all his rampaging paranoia, he couldn't help but find himself a little bit sceptical about their ability to find him here. He'd at least have a few days – a grace period, so to speak – before they caught up with him again, and he had to stifle a bark of laughter at the ironic thought: it was their own damn fault he was so fast.

A harsh cough behind him broke him out of his trance and he blinked himself back to reality as he picked up the steaming polystyrene cup, gave a word of thanks and made his way to a table in the corner. He hugged the wall as he did so, as if trying to sink into it, and looked at the coffee cup. Written on it in blotchy black ink was a phone number, presumably the counter girl's. _Ugh._ He'd had enough of stupid numbers to last his entire lifetime, and whatever came after that to boot.

_Subject 231 is ready for testing, Sir._

_Dr Jones, please prep Subject 678 for operation._

_Escort Subject 107 back to its cage._

His suspiciously lumpy shoulder bag hit the sticky plastic table with a loud 'thump'. However, under the muted hum of many voices and the tinny 'clink' of faded silver spoons against round, ceramic coffee cups, half of them chipped at the very least, the man with a bag full of knives and a pair of wings on his back went unnoticed.


End file.
